* * *
When Green and Washington reentered the house they found S’leen still curled up on the patterned carpet near the huge bloodstain where Ross had been shot. She was softly keening her grief in a way that set both men’s teeth on edge, and neither man knew quite what to do for her. Finally Washington knelt down and hesitantly put a hand on her quivering shoulder.
“S’leen,” he called, and when she didn’t respond he called her name again. When he still failed to get a response he gently shook her shoulder with a carefully firm grip. “S’leen, this isn’t helping matters, and it isn’t helping Jack. Now come on, get up, we need to talk.” To Green’s undisguised surprise she ceased keening and eventually raised a tear-soaked face up to gaze blurry-eyed at the two police officers. The look of anguish on her non-human face literally broke their hearts. No creature, they both believed, especially a sentient one, should have to suffer so for another, but then she surprised them by voicing agreement with the young sergeant.
“I…I am sorry,” she said, looking up at the men, “but it hurts so much when I think of how I will probably never again hold him next to me, never again experience his powerful kindness, never—” She paused, momentarily overcome with grief. Both men quickly produced handkerchiefs; she took Washington’s and honked her nose, then said, “Please forgive me. What is it you would like to talk about?”
“First, let’s get out of this room,” Green stated. “We need a place away from the stink of death, maybe the kitchen; there we can talk without being distracted.” But when they entered the kitchen they found Detective Richard Crosby seated at the little breakfast nook table, its surface covered with bureaucratic paperwork relating to his investigation.
“Didn’t find any IDs on the dirtbags, did you?” Green asked, and was rewarded with a disgusted shake of Crosby’s sandy-haired head. “Doesn’t surprise me, son. You probably won’t even get a fingerprint match since they’re most likely foreign nationals who got into the country on forged papers.”
“Just like the two previous cases I worked here, you mean?” Crosby asked and got a slow nod in reply. “Crap. Why even bother, LT? Nothing will appear in any records; it’ll all get hushed up.”
Green smiled thinly, saying, “While it doesn’t go into OUR official files, Dick, the information is important, and it might surprise you where it winds up. Carry on with your work. It’s a pretty day so maybe we’ll go sit under a tree.” And with that the two men and the alien grabbed tall glasses of a popular carrot-orange juice blend out of the refrigerator and left by way of the back door.
Ross had been justifiably proud of his carefully landscaped property, and he had made sure there were ample seats and tables scattered throughout the garden areas where people could simply relax and enjoy the tranquility. The two cops and the alien were soon seated on curved benches around a small table, and there the discussion began.
“I called Teddy Shapiro shortly after I arrived this morning,” Green stated. “He should be here before long. Since your only embassy in this part of the world is in New York,” he said nodding toward S’leen, “I figured you might want to return to Patrons until we know what’s going to happen to Jack.”
But he figured wrong. “Nolan, Patrons is not my home; unless Jack dies or he tells me I must leave, I am allowed to live here until the contract expires.”
“She’s right, sir,” Washington volunteered. “That question came up during one of our training sessions with S’leen and Jack at the firing range. Our guys wanted to know what would happen to S’leen if Jack were to be shot—accidentally, of course!—while at the range. Once that was settled we didn’t worry about it; we knew things would be cool.”
“I don’t know if I’d call it ‘cool’, Ron,” Green drawled, “but are you sure you’re not forgetting his son and daughter? They might have a say in all this.”
“That matter, too, is addressed in the contract,” the H’kaah stated. “In the event of his…his ‘total incapacitation’, I am entitled to live here and exercise control over my life, as well as receive my monthly pay, including money for food and necessary supplies, until the contract or…or my patron expires. After that I…I will have to leave.” Once again she looked heartbroken, and Washington boldly reached out and gently wrapped both of his large, dark hands around one of her velvety, golden ones.
“Until this matter is resolved,” he firmly stated, “you’ll be protected around the clock.” He glanced at his lieutenant as he told her, “There are more than enough guys who would be willing to rotate guard duty on their off-hours, if necessary. We’ll make sure no other dirtbags get a chance to hurt you.”
“Ron, I don’t think you understand,” she countered, her soft amber eyes boldly meeting his dark brown ones. “I was an incidental target—Jack was the one they were after. And,” she looked pointedly at Green, a strange expression on her face, “if word of his condition reaches the right ears, perhaps no other assassins will follow the three I…I k-killed.”
Green looked momentarily startled, then peered at the alien with new respect. “You know, I think our young lady has a valid point.” He chewed his lower lip for a few seconds, then casually stated, “I don’t mind authorizing a round-the-clock police presence here, Ron, but I agree with S’leen in that it’s probably not necessary.” He glanced at his watch, then said, “And you, young lady, are missing out on needed sleep-time. It’s already eight, and we need to call the hospital around noon for an update.” He stood, saying, “I’m past my shift change, too, so I think I’ll head home and grab a bath, a few hours’ sleep and some clean clothes. It’s gonna be a long day.”
* * *
Shapiro wearily grounded the Patrons minibus-sized starship in the far corner of the facility’s parking lot. Luckily he had been rested enough to pilot the bulky vehicle himself the full distance from England. None of the H’kaah who had gone to England with him had ever flown anything other than a kite, and the handful of flight-certified human staff that accompanied Shapiro and the aliens to England needed to stay behind and continue their work.
That didn’t, however, mean Shapiro wasn’t on the verge of exhaustion. In fact, he had to enlist F’haan’s help to keep him awake during the eight-hour parabolic-pathed flight that spent a major portion of the journey screaming through the thin stratosphere. The Patrons ship, like most low-cost civilian jumperdrive-powered vehicles, didn’t have an autopilot, and it hadn’t been optimized for atmospheric flight; actually, it had the aerodynamics of a brick, and high-speed flight at lower altitudes caused it to quiver and buck like something unhappily alive.
Shapiro’s companion dutifully rubbed at the tension knots in his shoulders and neck; this made him groan theatrically in a manner that a few months earlier would have frightened the timid H’kaah. Now, though, she simply ignored the sound, knowing that her patron was pleased with her skillful ministrations.
“We’ll only be here long enough to freshen up, Dear,” he rumbled. “While you make me a nice roast beef sandwich I’ll try to find out where S’leen is staying, and what Jack’s condition is.”
“Do you think he is…is still alive?” F’haan hesitantly asked.
“Since I haven’t gotten another call, and—” he checked the ‘message waiting’ feature on the tiny phone, “—there’s no e-mail or voice-mail messages waiting to be picked up,” his strong-featured face broke into a weary smile, “I’d say our boy Jack is still among the living.” He slowly unfolded from the pilot’s chair and pulled his wheeled bag from one of the overhead storage bins. F’haan retrieved her smaller shoulder bag; the aliens didn’t need much in the way of luggage. He opened the rear door, unfolded the stowed stairway and motioned for the russet-furred alien to go ahead of him.
“Ladies first, my Dear,” he said. “Anyway, I’ve gotta lock up.”
* * *
Noontime brought an increase in activity at the Ross estate. All but one police car had left, as had the cleaning service Lieutenant Green br
ought in to remove the bloodstains in the carpet. In fact, things had been quiet for over an hour before the electric gate hummed open and a sleek, black Chrysler sedan purred up the drive to stop near the patrol car. Shapiro and F’haan unfolded from its fragrantly leather-lined confines and slowly made their way into the house. Sergeant Washington met them near the foot of the stairs and gave them a low-voiced overview of what had transpired. As he was finishing the narrative another patrol car pulled to a stop out front and moments later a haggard-looking Green came through the front door. “Helluva night, Tzvi,” he stated. “So we’ve heard,” Shapiro responded, his expression grim. “And who is this lovely young lady?” Green asked, nodding politely toward the lop-eared H’kaah.
“Oh, that’s right, you haven’t met my companion. F’haan, this is Police Lieutenant Nolan Green. He and Jack and I go back a long way, both time- and distance-wise.”
Green had gotten used to being around S’leen, but compared to Ross’ companion this little red-furred H’kaah was quite different, both in looks and personality. F’haan was much shyer, several inches shorter (not counting the height “loss” due to her droopy “lop” ears) and had long, silky russet angora-like fur over most of her somewhat buxom body. The hair on top of her head was so darkly red it was almost black, and she wore it in a long ponytail that hung all the way down her back to her rump, where it matched the color on the tip of her tail. The tips of her ears also showed the same red-black color. Her petite claws were a contrasting pearl-white and her H’kaah-standard two-piece satin outfit matched the same delicate green shade of her eyes.
She was the most exotic creature Green had ever seen, and he suddenly envied his old Mossad partner like he’d never done before. Despite the best efforts of the house’s air conditioning system, Green began to sweat.
F’haan was still somewhat nervous around human authority figures, but before she could become too uncomfortable in the presence of the police officers she spied S’leen at the top of the stairs. The two aliens exchanged brief chitter-squeak greetings, which two of the three humans present readily understood, then S’leen came down to meet her visitors.
“Mr. Shapiro,” Ross’ companion said in English, “it is good to see you again. I just wish it were for a happier reason.” She took his right hand in both her silky-soft ones, then held it up for a symbolic inspection. “Is this the hand of a killer?” She dropped the surprised man’s hand and grasped the young officer’s right hand, giving it a cursory glance like she had done the older man’s appendage. “Other than color it looks little different from one of Sergeant Washington’s.”
When the surprised men looked to Green for guidance, the lieutenant simply said, “She knows, Tzvi. And there’s no need to skate around it in front of Washington, either.” Green looked weary. “At this rate, the whole damned world will know before this is over.”
S’leen released the embarrassed sergeant’s hand, then said something to F’haan, in H’kaah, that the young officer obviously didn’t understand. “She told her,” Green stated, “that hands that have killed look no different from those that have not killed.” When Washington looked even more confused Green explained, “We know for certain that Ross has killed at least four hundred people, and between us Teddy and I are responsible for somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred deaths. With only three ‘kills’ to her credit, our young H’kaah here has a long way to go to catch up—and we all hope to God she never does.”
F’haan’s beautiful green-irised eyes were so wide with shock that they looked almost ready to pop out of her head, and she recoiled from the humans—as well as S’leen—in horror.
The three men, along with the newly world-wise honey-blonde-furred H’kaah, stood quietly, waiting to see what the frightened lop-eared alien would do. Understandably, they didn’t have to wait very long as F’haan continued backing away from the others in the room, apparently preparing to bolt screaming out the front door.
Speaking in a sharp, commanding tone of voice that none of the humans had ever heard an H’kaah use, S’leen ordered the russet-furred female to stand still and quit acting like a fool. What further amazed the humans present is that she gave the orders in English.
“It is time,” S’leen firmly continued, “that our kind stop running from the unpleasant side of life. We don’t have to agree with the practice and we certainly don’t have to enjoy it, but we must face the fact that people of all kinds—furred, feathered or bare-skinned—kill.” She swept the three humans with her alien gaze, then added in a cold tone, “And if we H’kaah are to have a chance for survival in this unforgiving universe we must publicly acknowledge to friends and enemies alike that we are no different. Given the proper training and…and sufficient motivation, we too can kill.”
As the plush-furred alien stood listening to her species-sister in disbelief, S’leen added, “What Lieutenant Green said was correct; I killed the three humans who tried to kill my patron, and who planned to kill and…and EAT me.” F’haan jumped like she’d had her rabbit-tailed fanny goosed, a fresh look of horror twisting her soft features into an ugly, toothy snarl. “But,” S’leen continued, “because my patron believed in us—in me—he took the trouble to train me how not to automatically be a victim. Jack Ross gave me the ability to fight to live, and I plan to pass the gift, the very idea of that, to our people.” She slowly held out her right hand to the apprehensive female H’kaah, and F’haan at first looked at it as if it were a snake. But after a few long moments her face relaxed somewhat and she hesitantly reached a hand out toward S’leen’s velvet-furred one.
“Must I—k-kill—to live, S’leen?” the russet-colored H’kaah asked, a dejected tone to her voice.
To the three humans’ continued amazement S’leen replied, “We ‘kill’ to live every day, F’haan. We ‘kill’ living plants and consume their vegetable flesh to fill our bellies and fuel our bodies. In the multi-species universe we now live in we are not required to ‘kill’ other sentients for food; we—and therefore you—only have to be capable of killing those who would deny us—and you—a right to life itself. From what Jack has told me, most humans have never killed another human, and find the thought of it every bit as upsetting as we do. But when forced,” she added, “I believe humans are possibly the most efficient killers in the universe. They don’t just kill for…for f-food, they kill for many reasons, and sometimes…sometimes for no reason at all.” S’leen touched F’haan’s hand to her forehead, then released it. “I killed to keep from being killed, and I think that is a concept any sane person of any species can embrace.”
“Young lady,” Green said after a respectful nod in S’leen’s direction, “I couldn’t have said it any better myself.” After an awkward pause he stated, “But now I think it’s time we checked on our patient,” and he headed for the kitchen to retrieve the telephone handset from its charging base.
* * *
Doris Tritt watched her collection of cardio-monitors with practiced diligence. Most of the ICU patients connected to her electronic watchdogs were resting peacefully; number seven, of course, being the unlucky, unstable one of the bunch. She glanced at the nametag under the scrolling green line. Jack Ross. Doris Tritt had no idea what Jack Ross looked like, but from what she knew of his injuries—what she heard the surgeons had to do to keep him alive, and what they couldn’t fix—she wryly concluded that any thoughts of a long-term friendship were a waste of time.
Still, the young Jacksonville police officer sitting uncomfortably in the chair outside cubicle number seven tended to pique her curiosity about the man he was guarding. I wonder, she thought, is this Jack Ross character some kind of big-time criminal that they need to keep alive long enough for the legal system to execute him? Stranger things had happened, she knew, and she was convinced that even stranger things would happen in the future.
Ross’ monitor showed a dangerously irregular heartbeat, but from what her status sheet on him showed, the doctors knew of it and didn’t see
m to think they could do much more to rectify the situation. Every few minutes a grim-looking doctor, nurse or technician visited the cubicle, and every so often the cop peered around the corner, then returned to his chair, his face pasty white from what he’d seen.
Doris Tritt figured somebody would eventually tell her more about the mysterious patient in number seven; maybe even the young cop who, she had decided, wasn’t all that bad looking, would shed some light on the subject. No wedding ring on his left hand, either. Maybe he’d like some coffee, or perhaps she’d offer him a chilled can of Coke from the staff’s refrigerator. When her break time rolled around she’d tempt the cop with something refreshing and maybe, just maybe he’d break his silence. Today, she mused, might be more interesting than she’d thought.
Jack Ross slumbered on, restless, medically unstable, oblivious to the world.
But still alive.
* * *
“You’ve checked on him recently?” Green asked the telephone handset, then he nodded slightly and said, “I see.” After another pause he added, “Felicia, you have no idea how much your help in this means to me, and to S’leen.” Another pause and, “I know everybody under your care gets the best treatment possible, but with you personally involved in this I feel Jack is getting that little extra attention that might make all the difference.” There was a long pause during which he frowned and eventually said, “You’re sure? Really? Um, I see. Yeah, there’s that. Sure. Well—” Green looked like a deflated punch-me doll as he finished with, “I’m sure you’re doing your best, and that’s all anybody can ask for. Yeah, I’ll tell her. Thanks, Felicia, and we’ll check in tonight. The same to you, Dear. Goodbye.”
He slowly placed the handset into its cradle, then turned to look at the two H’kaah, Shapiro and Washington. What they saw was an obviously unhappy man struggling to find a way to say something he really didn’t want to say. After a handful of moments in which no words were spoken Washington got tired of waiting.
Redeeming Factors (Revised) Page 21
